


Dreamer Awake

by radikalsheek



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1511837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radikalsheek/pseuds/radikalsheek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thank you to Maggie Stiefvater who was the weaver of this cloth.Thank you - and your fellow writers of wide mind and generous soul - in letting us embroider the edges, even when we choose colors you don’t like. </p><p> </p><p>My version of what went on in Joseph Kavinsky's head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Joseph Kavinsky was running out of time. It was the worst fucking thing he’d ever dealt with to see all that fucking potential before you and know you didn’t have the time to stick around and…what? Help? Big cunting HA. Protect? Even more of a fucking joke considering the source. Maybe just watch it all unspool, just to fucking see. But it was not going to be that way, not for him, not for now. Fucking sucked, really. 

He’d known since he was what? Ten, twelve? Twelve, for sure. That dreamer in New York who’d shown him so much, who had exploded his world only to remake it bigger and better than he could have ever believed. Why did big and dangerous go together so often? If you were visible, they were already closing in and he’d been visible way too early. She was eighteen and three months the last time he’d seen her and she’d aged twenty years in three months. Her wealth of pale hair was thin and stringy, her skin drained of color and her body flesh over bones. Worst of all, her eyes were flat, desolate. He’d gone nuts, spewing all kinds of threats and promises but she hadn’t turned away, hadn’t even tried to hide it. “Too late for me, Joey”, she’d said, “I’m already dead but, don’t - promise me? Don’t let them come for you.”

Eighteen sure as hell had seemed a lot further away when you were twelve. 

Maybe his cocksucker of a father really had been trying to protect him but why couldn’t the fucktard have asked? If he was going out, he could at least choose fucking how. Who wants to die at fourteen anyway?

The last few years had been, all things considered, pretty fucking good.Who knew that nowheresville, Virginia was going to be this much fucking fun? Some - oops - over-distribution of his best merchandise and he’d just been asking to be fucking noticed. He’d tried to use the very thing that had them salivating for him against them. It had been a clever gamble that he hadn’t quite pulled off. He’d been aiming for protection but at least he’d gotten time. Proko’s Dad would have had a bullet put through his cortex without blinking an eyelash. Proko’s psychotic older brother would have carved him into little pieces and left them all over Jersey. Boarding school with the youngest, dumbest Prokopenko was summer camp in comparison. He’d jumped at the option. Poor dumb Proko, his minder turned minion. He’d get the last laugh on that family of assholes even if he would’t be around to enjoy the joke. 

Aglionby had been all right if you ignored their propaganda. Glowing future? His would be fucking radioactive. His fellow students were a mixed bag. The rich really were another fucking country and no matter where they happened to be geographically, that country came with. He was surrounded by too much money, too much privilege and rules that could be bent by either. It had been very fucking fun. These kids were raised on experiences and he could provide some learning moments. Sex, it turned out, was another province that the rich were willing to explore. Fewer limits for those who had the money and it was always enlightening the effect a wad of cash had on both zippers and panties. In short, he hadn’t been short of pussy or ass in West Virginia. 

He’d been an undeniable force here. Fuck positive but he’d certainly widened the experience of the youth of rural Virginia. Life here would be a lot more fucking dull without his celebratory instincts. Kavinsky liked to open minds and break down barriers. The night that homophobic cunt quarterback from a local public had eaten out his wide receiver’s ass, his blood thick with one of Kavinsky’s special mixes, had been one of his best nights ever. The witnesses had been few but the photos were primed if needed. He had neither care nor clue as to long-term effects but they can’t have been too bad as both those fuckers still came to his parties. 

Not that he’d had access to everyone, some of the old money elite at Aglionby continued to look down their patrician noses in his direction. He shrugged it off as their loss and worked with what he did have. 

Except now, as it turned out, when he wanted what he didn’t have. In short, Ronan Lynch. Everything lately circled back to him. He’d noticed Ronan the instant he’d arrived. Who wouldn’t? Those eyes, the cut of his jaw, the tilt of that shaved head, that freakin’ body, the rage and sadness that poured off him…oh, he’d noticed. Ronan’s “fuck with me not” attitude was like a searchlight to his inner moth. He’d wanted long before that night that Ronan had appeared, covered in blood, beside the Aglionby gate. Afterward, he’d wondered how he’d missed that, the presence of another dreamer so close. 

So far, they had been a fuckup of miscalculations. He kept expecting Ronan to fucking get it but Ronan had been a beautiful bundle of over-reaction and misinterpretation. Fearless and fine-tuned behind the wheel, out of his BMW armor, Ronan remained hostile and elusive. Ronan didn’t even seem to know his own effect. Jesus, half of Aglionby would cream their designer jeans if Ronan so much as sneered in their direction yet Lynch didn’t even seem aware of it. Details of where the fuck he went and what he did after the BMW smoked them on the streets were frustratingly hazy. He was not known to hookup or date, none of the tramps of either sex could brag of any experience within three feet of him and his appearance on the party circuit was rarer than virgin cock. Even that fucker Gansey made more social appearances than Lynch did. The only places he frequented regularly were that fucking church, the tennis courts where his brand of virulent tennis was feared, and Nino’s, where he ate with Gansey, their charity case and the smudgy kid no-one seemed to know. Yes, he’d been keeping tabs on Ronan. Usually by now, dreamer or no, he would have put him in the too hard basket and moved on. Yet - fuck, they had chemistry. They struck sparks off each other. Ronan was like a cat at the beach every time he went near, all hissing nerves and strained body language. Couldn’t he feel it between them? Did he not want to explore that? Was he too messed up or did he just not know how to go there? 

He knew Ronan’s backstory. He knew about Niall Lynch. Kavinsky had gone to The Barns. He’d broken into the abandoned house, wandered through, blown into Aurora Lynch’s dreaming face and wondered how the fuck Niall Lynch had done it. Fucking badass bringing your spirit guide from a dream and making her the mother of your children, Daddy Lynch must have been quite the operator. How had he kept this life protected? His sons off the radar? The rooms had been filled with the life that had lived here and it had been a good one. How the fuck had Niall Lynch had it that he had been left alone to build this? Did the Lynch sons know how Daddy had made it work? Until suddenly it hadn’t. What had happened? There were more questions than answers from his little visit. The Barns had the work of a dreamer in every crevice but why was it only the work of one dreamer running through it all? Where was Ronan’s shit in all this? Had his father been so on the downlow that he hadn’t shared any dreamer learning? Is that why he hadn’t registered Ronan? If that was the case, it was either fucking ballsy or fucking stupid and double that now that he was gone.

He was deeply pissed at Niall Lynch. Another fucktard father, getting himself killed and leaving Ronan clueless. Had he taught his son anything? Is that why he hadn’t reacted to the wrist bands ? There was desire in every molecule of of their making but Ronan hadn’t reacted to it. Kavinsky had had hope with the sunglasses. He could feel the power in them. Power and something more that he couldn’t name. Did Ronan know what it was? Did he know how dangerous that was? To have a creation feel this different to another dreamer? He would have to destroy the glasses, sooner rather than later. Another dreamer would know they were not Kavinksy’s work. It would be like painting a huge fucking target on Ronan’s back. Had Niall Lynch not taught him how to disguise his signature? Did he even know he had one? Did Ronan know what Kavinsky could feel in these sunglasses? A dreamer took an echo of his own emotion along with his creation from his dream place. Did Ronan know that the glasses he created were filled with fury and passion, wonder and confusion? Kavinsky had thought maybe he was finally getting somewhere with Ronan. Those glasses had given him hope but they also told him of ignorance. Jesus. He needed time and he was running out. 

There was a long list of things he would like to do with and to Ronan Lynch. The other dreamers he had met were pansexual, bisexual, not fussy, promiscuous…however you wanted to define it if you had to define it. Kavinsky didn’t. Dreamers were attracted to the person, not the gender. Yet those glasses were telling him Ronan swung one way and one way only. Was it another anomaly? Connected? Kavinsky had heard in families where dreamers were closely related one could be strongly of one persuasion, one of another. Perhaps that was what happening here. Ronan’s car, whilst a dream thing, had not given him anything. It was clearly Niall Lynch’s. He could make another visit to the Barns and pay closer attention but did it really matter? On that long list of things, sex - as combustible as he was sure it would be - sex was not top of the list. Sex, he could get elsewhere. Above all, he wanted to dream with Ronan. He wanted to create with him. Even if it was only once, he would like to share that rapport, that rush with Ronan. 

On nights like tonight, Kavinsky knew he needed to plan. He wondered what would happen if he just bundled Ronan into his car and took him, took them both far away where they could dream together. Would they make it out? Or would they be a giant double target? Kavinsky’s card was marked a long time ago but if he could shield then, well, it wouldn’t be worth his fucking life but if something in his death protected one other dreamer and that dreamer was Ronan, then that would balance the bitterness of his pill a little.


	2. Chapter 2

“That Irish cunt is here”, Proko said, leaning into his space on the hood of the Evo. 

Kavinsky told himself to keep on the line. He finished, straightened, wiped off his nose and took an unhealthy swig of the vodka Proko was holding. 

“What?”, he said.

“Lynch. Talking to Hale by the Skyline.” 

“Oh.”

“He didn’t take off to fuck knows where, like usual. You think he wants something?”

“Came to the right place then, we’ve got plenty to give.” Kavinsky thrust against the hood, Proko laughed his stupid, gurgling laugh and Kavinsky took another swig of vodka before he smashed the bottle over Proko’s head.

“Swan must be creaming himself.” Swan had a badly hidden thing for Lynch. Ronan ignored it. Kavinsky would sooner gargle the glass from the vodka bottle than be that obvious.

It was Friday gone Saturday, usual place, usual suspects with an unexpected addition. Not that Kavinsky had sighted him yet. Not that he was going to look. 

“Where’s Skov?” 

“Getting head.”

“Tell him his fucking tunes suck. Change it before I go deaf from that shit and shoot up his sound.” Proko turned to do it, Kavinsky waved him back. In a sudden burst of appreciation for his dutifulness, Kavinsky passed him the vodka. “You can wait til he’s done…who’s sucking him off?”

Kavinsky liked to keep tabs. Sometimes. 

“That brunette with the Dustbuster mouth and the weird tits.”

“Weird tits?”

“Yeah, one’s bigger than the other. By a lot.”

“Talking about your malformed balls again?” Kavinsky forced himself still. Took the vodka bottle from Proko and swilled it. He held it out.

“Evening, Mr Lynch. How fucking delightful of you to join us.” Ronan was in a white tank and his well fitting jeans. He smelled of beer, sweat and lemons. He took the vodka bottle and contemplated it.

Prokopenko leaned in.

“Yeah, what’s the special occasion?” 

Ronan lifted a brow. He handed the vodka back. 

“Not welcome?, he asked, 

“Proko, didn’t you have an errand.” At Proko’s blank look, he added, “The music.” 

“Oh yeah.”, Proko stumbled off. Ronan looked poised for flight, every muscle tensed. .

“I can go.” 

Kavinsky flapped a hand at him. 

“Party’s not even getting started. Stay. Get head, punch a few people, whatever floats your catamaran.” He handed the vodka back. This time Ronan drank. Deeply. The evening was looking up. 

Swan suddenly appeared, eyes whirling with weed and worship .

“You drove great tonight, Ronan. No-one could catch you.” 

Jesus. Kavinsky wanted to fucking shoot them all. 

Ronan was rolling with it it though, fingers still around the bottle, leaning against the Evo beside him, more relaxed than Kavinsky had ever seen him which still wasn’t. Kavisnsky could feel the long lines of his body beside him and the heat pouring off him. Dreamers ran warm but Ronan was roiling with energy. Kavinsky itched to touch but even more he itched to dream. HIs own thoughts were alight with ideas on how to get Ronan alone, away from here. Kavinsky was sure he wasn’t the type to go for a quick suck beside or fast fuck in the back seat of the Evo with the crowd milling outside. It’d take more effort than that. Even if Ronan had been surprisingly willing, Kavinsky wanted to put the work in. He didn’t mind fast but he didn’t want quick. 

Time for another hit. He laid it out. Ronan watched but shook his head when he offered. See? Good non-verbal and he didn’t touch his stash, how much better could they be? He straightened up. Stretched and watched Ronan’s eyes follow him. The hit was hooking into his blood and Swan was still drooling at Ronan’s feet. Fucker. 

They appeared to be discussing who knew what and whom. Aglionby connection shit. Who gave a flying asswipe who’d pulled whose pigtails in middle school or if Ronan and Hale had been at St Dickwad’s together? 

“Not gay though, Hale. Likes blondes, flexible ones.” Fuck had he said that out loud? Judging by Ronan’s face, yeah, he had. He was a retard cocksucker sometimes and that last hit had him flying. Double-fuck Jesus. He liked to clock people’s preferences, you never knew when it would come in handy but right now, really fucking not. 

Ronan had gone still, his face very chiseled in the low lighting. Somewhere in the silence between them, an engine revved, high and close. Kavinsky wished he could concentrate on that. How did he get back from that one?

Ronan’s pants pocket buzzed. Not for the first time but he dug into it, pulled out a cell and scanned it. 

“I’m out”, he said and just like that was gone into the night. Swan looked like someone had kicked his puppy balls. Kavinsky shrugged at him.

“Probably had to go bang Dick-Dick-Dick” he offered as Swan continued to stare into the darkness where Ronan had disappeared. Kavinsky finished off the vodka and threw the bottle at a passing car. It bounced off the trunk and smashed with a satisfying shatter. Kavinsky decided to go find the Dustbuster brunette and feel the weird tits for himself. Enough dick shit for one night, he needed pussy.


	3. Chapter 3

Kavinsky was sprawled over the outdoor divan watching the pool lounge drift gently across the water. Someone had built a pyramid of empty beer cans on top of it and he watched as they traveled across the pool and back. Whoever had done it had made the construction sturdy enough not to topple when the raft hit the edges of the pool. He was pretty sure it was from last night’s party and not the night before’s. The house was cleaned up but the pool deck, as he’d just discovered, not so much. 

Kavinsky had taken a day off from partying to plan his July 4. Kavinsky was a planner. Fucking shocker, he knew. People seemed to think his parties and stuff just fucking happened but spontaneity only really worked when it was the fluff on the top of structure. He learned that from Prokopenko Senior. Fucking perverted plans, that cocksucker had, but they were in place nonetheless. Planning had kept Kavinsky alive this far and plans would take him out his way. 

He was eighteen in September but Kavinsky didn’t believe that there would be a start to the senior year for him. The cheap fuckers would have a harder job recouping the deposit then. He knew how he’d do it: let up on the kickbacks to local justice, have him arrested - any one of a dozen charges - then sent back to Jersey to answer another list of priors. Let him stew somewhere for a couple of months until he was finally, finally legal, then quietly fold him into their fucking fun factory. Then he'd be just another strung out dreamer, burning out under endless demand. No, July 4 it was and it would be one hell of a send-off. The louder he went out, the bigger the repercussions would be. He was sorry to shut down the party of the last few years - nah, fuck that, he was not. If his party was to be cut short, why should theirs continue? Without him, it would be piss poor anyway. Besides, the bigger the repercussions, the safer certain thick-headed, dickwad-loving fellow dreamers would be. 

Fucking Ronan. They had dreamed together. Not just one time but a whole weekend of dreams and dreaming. He’d shown Ronan more stuff than the fucker could take in in a month, let alone a weekend. And Ronan, Ronan had been wide open to him. No shields. He was sure Ronan still had some secrets, buried deep, but that weekend he had been in the magical, fucked up place that was Ronan Lynch’s head. For a while there, he’d thought about planning another way out but he couldn’t now. Since that weekend, if they got him, they got Ronan and that wasn’t going to happen.

“It was never going to be you and me.” Ronan had said. That fucking hurt but then, what did Ronan know? Very fucking little. Kavinsky knew. He knew it wasn’t going to be the “you and me” as in driving into the sunset, romping through fields of daisies, building happy fucking ever afters. It wasn’t going to be him and anyone. He hadn’t needed Ronan cocksucker Lynch to remind him and fuck that anyway. Who needed it? But it already had been “you and me” in ways that counted for him and for Ronan too even if he didn’t understand it yet. Let that fucker Gansey and Adam Parrish - and who the fuck saw that coming? That Ronan Lynch was carrying a torch a mile high for the beat up scholarship kid? Even seen through Ronan’s eyes, he couldn’t get that one and yeah, fucking cliche of sad fag falling for straight friend and pining. Jesus. Although Ronan had unfathomable optimism so maybe he was seeing something Kavinsky wasn’t and where had he started on this? Oh yeah, let fucking Gansey and that cunt Parrish have their Ronan, he had his version and no-one could take that away. Fuck you very much. 

He hadn’t handled it well either with his “for me or against me” bullshit. What the fuck was that? Yeah, he’d been stung but stupid motherfucker comment number one. When had it ever been “either or” for him? It was more “and and and”. Honestly, the bullshit they spouted to each other? They really should just shut up and dream. Or fuck. Hell yeah to that last one. 

This wasn’t helping his planning any. Time for a hit. Or several.

“You always leave your house wide open?” 

Talk of the asswipe devil. 

Ronan Lynch stood, silhouetted before him, in the sun. 

Kavinsky squinted up at him. Where were his motherfucking sunglasses?

“You always wander into wide open houses?”

“I knocked. No-one answered. Door was open.”

So his mother was already passed out for the day. Jesus, it was…actually nearly two o’clock. Long day for her. 

“Well, we welcome everyone. Unless we don’t.”

“What happens when you don’t?”

Kavinsky reached under a nearby pillow, pulled out a gun, aimed it between Ronan’s eyes. Ronan didn’t even blink.

“You got balls, Lynch.” He put the gun back down. 

“Yes,” agreed Ronan, “Wanna suck em?”

For a moment, his jaw hung. Then he looked at Ronan who stood holding a bottle of Stoli and a small glass bowl, a smirk that could only be described as wicked curling his mouth. Kavinsky started to laugh. He laughed so hard he doubled over on the divan, curled into the pillows, his sides starting to ache. He laughed so hard that Ronan started laughing too, with him or at him, didn’t make much difference. Ronan put his Stoli and his bowl on the table and dropped beside him. Kavinsky caught his eye and they were off again, laughing until they were gasping for breath.

“Stop” said Ronan. “Stop. It hurts.”

They were both winding down, the laughing trickling away to gasps and chuckles. Kavinsky looked at the coffee table.

“Is that a fish?”

“It is. For you. In case your Mom forgot to replace.”

Kavinsky sat up. 

“it’s a Russian fighting fish. It’s called K the Fish.”

“Bulgarian, fucker, and you really stretched yourself on the name.” 

Kavinsky watch the fish swim around in its little bowl. It looked a lot like a goldfish but what did he know from fish?

“You brought me a fish and asked me to suck your balls?”

Kavinsky started to laugh again. Jesus, Ronan was entertaining. You never knew what the fucker would do. He was doubled over, arms around his middle, holding his sides in case they split apart from the gusts of laughter blowing through him. As the laughter died away for the second - was it third? - time, he realized they were tangled together on the divan, Ronan was leaning on his hip. He wondered how to sit up without dislodging him. He breathed deep, watched Ronan do the same. Ronan met his eyes and the tenor of their breathing changed. It suddenly occurred to Kavinsky that if he had been in Ronan’s head, then Ronan had been in his and while he had better defenses, a lot of what had been in Kavinsky’s head lately was Ronan Lynch. 

They were still staring at each other. Kavinsky lifted a finger, traced it along Ronan’s sharp jawline and watched Ronan’s molten eyes simmer with heat. The other fingers joined and his hand was wandering over Ronan’s jaw, down his neck and back up, over to his mouth. Ronan was leaning into the touch, his gaze was heavy with it. Ronan licked his lips, slow and deliberate. Kavinsky bit back a noise and they were kissing. Their mouths clashed together in a swirl of teeth and tongue that rocked through Kavinsky with a bolt of lust tinged white with heat. Ronan’s hands swept down his t-shirt, found the edge and slid underneath and the first touch of his hands on Kavinsky’s skin made him groan into Ronan’s mouth. He pulled at Ronan, trying to get him close, closer, he still wasn’t close enough to put out the heat itching under his skin. He didn’t think he could ever get close enough.

His hands were wandering across Ronan’s chest and he pulled Ronan’s t-shirt over his head, discarded his own. Ronan’s mouth was on his neck and he wanted his hands in a dozen places at once. Kavinsky fell back, mouth to mouth, pulling Ronan on top of him. Ronan’s body on his was a glorious weight and they pulled their mouths apart, gasping as their erections ground together for the first time. Kavinsky took his weight into his heels and rocked up, hard into Ronan. He felt like he might fly apart any minute just from this. 

Ronan’s hand was on his crotch, pressing down, cupping him and it was so fucking good. Too good. He grabbed Ronan’s wrist to stop.

“Wait”, he said, panting. There was a sudden scrabble for each other’s pants, fingers clumsy with haste , then Jesus, Ronan was peeling his jeans and jockeys down his thighs, wriggling out of his own and finally, finally, their hands were on each other. Ronan’s touch was so perfect it scalded through him. His breathing was for shit.

“You close?” Ronan asked. Jesus, his voice. It was lower than usual, a sexy growl that only made him pant faster.

“Yeah, fuck, yeah. I’m gonna go.” Ronan’s own breathing was wild and as Kavinsky worked the vein on the underside of his cock, he shuddered, his eyes shut in pleasure, mouth hanging open.

“Too close to fuck”, Ronan said and Kavinsky erupted. It went on and on in a 3D production. Ronan was convulsing against him. Kavinsky lifted his hand, licking Ronan’s cum off his fingers in low, slow curls of tongue, watching Ronan watch him. Ronan’s eyes were alight again and then his mouth was on his, kissing deeply. Kavinsky lifted Ronan’s hand and sucked his own cum off Ronan’s fingers, pulled Ronan’s head close, pushed it into his mouth. Tongues and sweat and the taste of themselves and each other. Sex with another dreamer was always more intense, their touches instinctual, building on the knowledge from each other’s minds. He had known all along it would be like this with Ronan, that chemistry exploding like a motherfucking molotov.

By the time they finished kissing, he was more than half hard, lying against Ronan. Ronan rubbed his own rapidly filling cock against Kavinsky’s thigh and reached for the vodka bottle on the coffee table. He took a long, thirsty gulp and passed it to Kavinsky. He drank. Ronan took it back, took another swallow then slid down Kavinsky’s body and wrapped his mouth around his cock. 

The heat of Ronan’s mouth filled with the chill of vodka around his cock shot him into full hardness instantly. His world was reduced to heat and chill and pleasure. Ronan leaned an arm across his hips to stop their bucking and continued to swig vodka and suck his cock. 

Kavinsky stared up at sun and sky. The pool raft floated in his peripheral vision, bearing its beer cans in spirals around the pool and Kavinsky had never felt so intensely present in a real life moment. He flung an arm over his face, shielding his eyes from sun and all the fucking feelings running through him. The other traveled down and found Ronan’s, still holding his hips down and he folded his fingers into Ronan’s and held on. 

Ronan looked up, meeting his eyes and the sight of his mouth around Kavinsky’s cock was damn near enough to make him boil over. He saw Ronan’s eyes warm, he could swear the bastard was smirking at him. 

Kavinsky pulled on their entwined fingers.

“Ronan”, he said and it was an effort to get breath around the words. “Fuck me.”

He had been waiting months to say it. Everything had come so easy in Henrietta. Everything until Ronan. He been waiting months for push back, for someone to fucking take. He wanted to be spread out, laid bare, unraveled. It had taken months for them to get here and he wanted it with a hunger that was frantic in it’s intensity. 

“There’s condoms and stuff under the coffee table.”

Ronan’s eyebrows rocketed up. 

“Quite the fuck palace, huh?” 

Kavinsky shrugged. 

“Guests should never be wanting.”

Ronan’s expression was complex as he leaned over and rustled around. 

“Jesus, there’s flavors in here. Strawberry Passion. Electric Tropicana. What the fuck?” 

Kavinsky had been in Ronan’s head. He knew that Ronan went for older, experienced and built. That he didn’t do casual, that he did do fuck buddy. He knew about the rough and the kink, about the man who had taken him apart and the ones who put him back together. The thing about Aglionby was that when you were there, it was easy to think that was all there was. All this time, the Aglionby gossip queens had gotten it fabulously wrong. Ronan Lynch was a local. He knew where to go and how to keep a secret. But apparently synthetic fruit additives hadn’t factored into his adventures. Kavinsky loved them. He couldn’t wait to see Ronan’s reaction to his bedroom. It was a fucking library up there. 

“Do the jelly condoms.”

Ronan’s smirk was pointed but he reached for one of the squishy wrappers. Kavinsky wondered how he - and for that matter fucking Parrish - factored in Ronan’s past pantheon. 

“Any particular lube?”

“The one in the red bottle heats up.” 

Ronan’s brows were sky high again. Kavinsky sat up and took the condom from him, ripped open the packet with his teeth and rolled it over Ronan’s cock with lingering touches. Ronan’s hand on his face guided him into a sticky kiss. Kavinsky pulled him backwards until Ronan was between his thighs, his hands on Kavinsky’s cock and balls, sliding down to finger his hole. Then Ronan had fingers massaging his perineum whilst his thumb slipped in and out of his body. Fuck, it was good. He lifted his legs, wrapped them around Ronan’s hips and pulled him in. 

“Do it. Just do it.” He didn’t mind rough either and he wanted to feel this, to be split open and filled. If this was the only time he was with Ronan, he wanted to hurt with it afterwards. 

Ronan grabbed this thighs, pulled him wide and thrust, driving into him. He pulled back, thrust again, leaving no breathing room, taking no quarter. Ronan set a punishing pace, pistonning his hips fast and smooth, fucking him open. Kavinsky threw his head back and unleashed a sound that was part moan, part howl. Ronan was fucking hard and fast and it felt obscenely, indecently right. He unwrapped his legs from around him and planted his feet, pushing back. Ronan’s head was titled back, his eyes slit, mouth open. His breathing was ratcheting up but somehow his hips were moving even faster. Kavinsky reached back, scrabbling for grip. He anchored himself over the edge of divan, lifting himself off it and bowing back towards Ronan. The thing was rocking, shaking across the deck towards the pool. Kavinsky could care less. Right now, his body thrummed with the obsession of coming. He pushed himself higher. Ronan bent towards him, sliding his hands under his back, helping support and the new angle hit his prostrate, lighting up his every cell. He was an arc of tension breaking, coming with a howl even as Ronan reached for his cock. He was shaking, muscles gone jelly in release, collapsing in on himself. He felt the gush of warmth, watched Ronan’s face twist and his hips stutter, slowing. He watched, panting, the play of expression over Ronan’s face. 

Ronan’s hands under his back slid low and he let himself roll down. Ronan sprawled on top of him, gasping. He levered himself up and pulled out of Kavinsky. He slid out of the condom, tied if off and discarded it, falling to one side of Kavinsky’s inert slump. Kavinsky twisted his head and met Ronan’s eyes. After that there could be no words but Ronan’s fingers threaded into his and they lay, bodies tangled, sweat cooling, breathing calming and watched each other as late afternoon faded into dusk.


	4. Chapter 4

Kavinsky woke to warmth against his back and breath on his neck. July 3. He rolled over and looked into Ronan’s sleeping face. Ronan had stayed. First time. Last time. Stop, he told himself sharp and fierce. You get what you get and he was past master in taking what he could. He was glad he had had this, felt this. So what if they hadn’t had much time. Time for what? To piss each other off? Realize it wasn’t going to work, start hating? 

Truth? Kavinsky liked to think of truth as a fluid concept with many angles. But his truth was that his whole life had been dominated by one thing. The dreaming had crushed him years ago and he’d been dying by inches ever since. Tomorrow, he would be free. 

Ronan would not understand. How could he? He hadn’t come from that. Kavinsky sure as hell hoped he wasn’t going anywhere similar. Ronan’s life was a fucking kaleidoscope of stuff in comparison and he wanted all those little colored bits to keep making infinite pictures for years and years to come. Stupid fucking image, although he did like kaleidoscopes, especially when high. Speaking of which. He reached for his stuff, did a line off the nightstand. 

The last piece of his plan was in place and Ronan was going to be pissed. He wished he could tell Ronan how much of a waste the anger usually was but this time, the anger would help. Would make it easier during and after. Maybe one day Ronan would get it, probably not one day soon. 

He needed Ronan angry tomorrow. He wanted Ronan there but he needed combative Ronan in full pissy Lynch mode, angry enough to bring his A grade destructive shit. He was confident of his trigger. His first thought had been Gansey or fucking Parrish but he didn’t trust himself, was sure when push came to shove, he wouldn’t will either safe. There was really only one choice. 

He hoped it was loud and crazy and fucking mean. He hoped in the chaos no-one who could would notice the second dreamer. He’d taught Ronan to shield, to hide. He hoped he fucking remembered tomorrow. This was a gamble but between them, they had it. 

He looked into Ronan’s face. Sleeping, not dreaming. Kavinsky leaned in and kissed him whisper soft, then poked him not so gently in the ribs. 

“Wake up, sweetheart. I’ve got a fuckton of shitstuff to get ready before tomorrow.” He needed every minute, would have to be meticulous with his timing to get everything he needed out of his dream place. Had already started and would go into tomorrow exhausted, but ready. Would lean on the high to get him through.

Ronan blinked sleepily at him. 

“Jesus, K, sorry. Didn’t mean to crash on you, hope you didn’t mind the bedmate.” 

No, he hadn’t minded . And K? It was cute nicknames now? About fucking time this was done. 

He pushed Ronan onto his back, one hand on his shoulder, one hand reaching, curling around his morning erection. Kavinsky moved over him, straddled, grinding down. Ronan groaned, wrapped still easy with sleep hands around his thighs. 

“Wore you out last night, huh? Sorry you can’t keep up, Lynch, but since you’re here, can’t let good wood go to waste.”

One last time. He would ride them both to oblivion and then, then he had a date with Matthew Lynch.


	5. Chapter 5

It was Gansey who took the delivery on July 7. Ronan was with his mother in Cabeswater. When Ronan got home, the tank was already set up. It was ten times bigger than the original bowl and K the Fish had a friend. 

Matthew was delighted.

“Oh,hey. Joey gave you his fish. He said he was going to. That’s K and the other one is L. Weird names, huh? Do you think he meant Kaye and Elle? Are fish girls or boys? How do you tell? We went and got L at the pet store. Joey said L was an Irish fucking fish. Sorry for the swear but that’s what he said. Is that really a fish type? I think it’s a joke. Isn’t that the coolest tank? He had the tank all ready. I'm sure L was happy to be somewhere so cool.”

Ronan stared between his brother and the tank. 

Joey? _Joey?_ Only Matthew.

The fish tank was large for two but it gave them plenty of room to get around. In the background was a luridly painted sunset. It was garish really. A very Kavinsky color scheme. In the foreground was a long, straight stretch of road with two cars, beautifully rendered. One was a white Mitsubishi, the other a charcoal BMW. Their windows were down so the fish could swim through. On one side of the tank was one of those fish tank warrens, this one was of a forest, complex and beautiful. A tiny sign hung from the largest tree. It read “K and L’s special special place.” 

Ronan touched the glass of the fish tank. It was thick with the signature of another dreamer and the emotions in it made the room spin around him as his throat clogged.


End file.
